then, had been here since last, as Smarlinghue, the seedy,
drug-wrecked artist, he had left the place the day before; for, on
entering, he had already satisfied himself that the French window had
not been tampered with.

A hard smile flickered across his lips. It was a grim transition, this,
from the luxury, the wealth and refinement of New York's most exclusive
club, which he had left but half an hour ago! The smile faded, and he
passed his hand a little wearily across his eyes. The strain seemed to
grow heavier every day--the underworld more prone to suspicion; the
police more vigilant; that ominous slogan, in which Crime and the Law
for once were one, "Death to the Gray Seal!" to ring more constantly in
his ears. It was becoming more fraught with peril, danger and difficulty
than ever before, this dual life he led. And he had thought it all
ended--once. That was only a few months ago, when the way had seemed
clear for them both, for the Tocsin and himself. Well, he was here
to-night to end it again if he could--by playing perhaps the most
desperate game he had ever attempted.

He shook his head. It was more than the hazard, the danger and the peril
of his dual life that brought the strain--it was the Tocsin, his love
for her, _her_ peril and _her_ danger, the unbearable anxiety and
suspense on her account that was never absent from him. And it was that
that kept him in the underworld, that had forced him to create again a
role in gangland, the role of Smarlinghue, in the hope that he might
track her enemies down. She would not help him. If she knew, and she
must know, the authors of this new danger that had driven her once more
into hiding, she would not tell him. She was afraid--for _him_. She had
said that. She had said that she would fight this out alone, that she
would not, could not, whatever the end might be, bring him again into